


Il Dottore

by clockwork-stars (hemogoblin)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Brief mention of needles, Canon-Typical Violence, Ezio begins as a young lad, OC is a doctor, Other, working title?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8689777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hemogoblin/pseuds/clockwork-stars
Summary: A young Ezio Auditore flees a fight gone awry, gaining the attention of a local doctor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is still something of a vague idea in my mind, but I felt inspired. This is just a test run of the concept. The Ezio/OC would occur much later but u know.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for giving my writing a go. Any feedback would be much appreciated. I'll put translations at the end!
> 
> Crossposted on FFN, where everything goes to die.
> 
> x

_Firenze, Italia 1475_

The city was still asleep. Naught but a few souls wandered the streets as early morning light cast pale shapes. Through innumerable trellis and between buildings, streaking across broad squares throughout the city.  Dawn had barely broken, and a figure clad in shades of umber and coal slipped from his place of residence. A long braid flitted at his waist, swinging as a coat was donned, fanning out at his back, propelled by each measured step.

A leisurely pace was all he took through vacant back-alleys, sage gaze flickering from planters, high up, to crates stacked and discarded along walls. Firenze at such an hour was more than pleasant—he preferred it in such a cool, sleepy state. A full lip curled upward. Sunrise would soon enough breathe life back into its people, and bring out more than just the brisk guard and dozing courtesans.

He swayed from a shaded walkway, brow furrowed and eyes narrow against pallid light. A murmur reverberated off all walls of the small clearing. Merchants set up their wares for the new workday, and curtains peeled back to the morning light in the homes that overlooked the square. The distinct aromas of bread and sweet roast being prepared was the faintest lure, reeling he in black in to drop a few florins on a bread roll. On the way out, a tired smile was shared with the woman managing the place all on her lonesome, an easily appreciated gesture.

Pigeons dove from above to peck at the sparse grass growing in the corner of the square. Buckles on heavy boots signified each step with a soft rattle. The square was serene, alleys near to dead silence. This peace, however, was shattered in a matter of seconds.

The sounds of a dispute only then reached his ears, eyes widening by a hairs’ breadth. The clatter of metal on stone, distinct shouts. He pivoted, head inclining sceptically as he listened for the source of what reminded them of a small riot. Finally, a long-beaked mask was slung from his belt and fastened accordingly over a youthful visage. Smouldering herbs within allowed for a waft of smoke to roll off the back of his head.

A brisk pace was set in the suspected direction. Why anyone would be out making such a ruckus when it was hardly even daybreak was beyond him; the possibilities rolled through his mind rapid-fire. The thieves' guild could have boomed again, or the guard was harassing someone out of sheer boredom.

Before he could head down one way, a boy burst forth from the street adjacent, shouts spilling out after him.  He sprinted from beyond the way, its mouth crowned by ropes laced with greenery. As he rushed past in a cool gust, blood splattered uneven patterns in his wake. With a sigh, yielding yet another puff of smoke, the man stepped into the small mob’s path; that made by the fleeing boy. Surely, they wouldn’t cross _un dottore_.

A boot _shlked_ over the mix of blood and grit.

“Walk the other way, ” he spoke, muffled through a plague mask, with his gaze schooled to impassivity. The mob of boys barely stopped in time, nary an arm’s reach from his chest. They murmured and leered beyond, to the boy. “Let him be, _per favore_.”

Eternity seemed to drag by in the subsequent silence. He gazed upon the seeming leader of this band of boys. The raven boy glared, and the doctor stared right back. Of course he wouldn’t budge—so the man did, turning his back. Even strides carried him far, far away. A frustrated outburst was on deaf ears as he traced the blood trail.

“ _Mon dieu_ , I swear.” he heaved a sigh, gazing about the general vicinity. The blood dripped till it was no more; a dead end. “Where have you gone?”

The air was still, save for the sound of grit beneath a heavy boot.

“ _Dottore_ , ” a voice reached him. He could have sworn there was the faintest hint of amusement to it. “ _Lo sono qui, dottore_.”

His gaze searches for a moment, before the boy comes into focus. He sat upon a few crates at the very rear of an alley, braced against the wall and grinning to conceal his pain. Upon approaching, the boy was elevated just enough to be level with the doctor’s chest. He smirked. _How convenient._

“What mischief are you up to, to be chased like this? And at such an hour, mm?” asked the doctor, muffled. Amber eyes dart away from his gaze, a heavy sigh moving the boy’s shoulders.

“I would rather not speak of it…” trailed the boy, a patient-to-be. The doctor unbuckled the leather roll holding a meagre fraction of supply from his belt. The boy observed with an air of curiosity, suspicious. “Why did you follow me?”

A hum resonates from the doctor’s chest, complacent in nature. “I saw someone bleeding.” His gaze drops at that moment, to the clear wound on his calf. A meagre attempt to stifle the bleeding with an old cloth had been made, likely torn from the crates he perched upon. “Would you like sutures for this, or simple bandaging?”

“I have a _dottore_ already…” the boy defended weakly.

Unseen, the doctor’s brow raises. “So you would like to walk all the way to him on this, then?”

“ _No, questo è non_ —that is not what I mean.” The boy’s verbal stumbling was amusing to the man, making him quite glad he can’t see the wry smile splitting his features. He moved forward, unrolling his supplies on one of the lower crates.

“As I thought, ” he hummed. “Sutures or bandages?”

Hanging on an _s_ sound, the boy sucked a lip between his teeth, observing. Watching the needle in the roll come out, held between forefinger and thumb. “Bandages, _dottore_ , ” came an apprehensive reply.

“Certainly, _messere_.”

The needle is returned to its spot, and a roll of linen pulled from a hip pouch in its place. The doctor leans in to observe the wound, gingerly taking the injured leg into one hand and extending the knee with a gentle push to the kneecap. Forest eyes narrow, watching the short gush of blood from torn flesh. “ _Mes excuses_ , truly.” he utters, hardly missing a grimace. “I am going to see if anything is stuck in it, then wrap the wound.”

A soft groan is the reply. It’s taken as a _do as you will_ , and the doctor began by slitting leather trousers to the knee. He examines the wound and exposed muscle, reaching for the flask of wine at his hip. The boy shouts in pain as he’s doused, red rivulets dripping to the dirty ground. “ _Mes excuses_.”

The flask is passed up; the boy drinks deeply.

“ _Messere_ , ” breathed the doctor after a time, rising from an uncomfortable hunch. “I have mended you to my current ability.”

As though he were holding his breath, the boy–who he then noticed to be nobility, if the rich clothing was anything to go by–heaved a breath of relief. Did he really hold it so long? The doctor’s lips upturn wryly, concern clear-borne even through the glass sockets of his mask.

There was no thank you, hardly even a smile. The boy seemed so drained—liable to have been awake all night, running about. The doctor doesn’t linger on the lack of graciousness any further. Instead, he begins wrapping his supplies back up, sure to monitor the boy as he does so for any signs of fainting.

“You know Ambrogio the smith?”

“ _Sí_.”

“I work just across from him.” Stated the man, refashioning the roll to his belt. His coat flutters back down, curtaining around booted feet as he adjusted. “Do what you can to keep the wound clean. Come to me if you've any fear of a developing infection, _per favore_.”

He hesitated.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“ _No_.”

While he was reluctant, he did leave. As he did so, a man around his age ran into the small alley, calling, “ _Ezio! Mio fratello!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations, in order of occurrence;  
> un dottore – Italian – a doctor  
> por favore – Italian -- please  
> Mon dieu! – French – My god!  
> Lo sono qui, Medico. – Italian – I am here, doctor.  
> No, questo è non— – Italian – No, that is not—  
> messere – Italian – sir  
> Mes excuses – French – My apologies  
> Mio fratello! – Italian – My brother!


End file.
